These thoughts brought the mulatto an unspeakable sadness, not only for
his own particular death, but that this idea, this great redeeming
truth, which burned so brightly in his brain, would in another moment
flicker out, unrevealed, and be no more.

CHAPTER XVIII

The coughing and rattling of an old motor-car as it rounded the
Niggertown curve delayed Tump Pack's act of violence. Instinctively, the
three men waited for the machine to pass before Peter walked out into
the road. Next moment it appeared around the turn, moving slowly through
the dust and spreading a veritable fog behind it.

All three negroes recognized the first glimpse of the hood and top, for
there are only three or four cars in Hooker's Bend, and these are as
well known as the faces of their owners. This particular motor belonged
to Constable Bobbs, and the next moment the trio saw the ponderous body
of the officer at the wheel, and by his side a woman. As the machine
clacked toward them Peter felt a certain surprise to see that it was
Cissie Dildine.

The constable in the car scrutinized the black men, by the roadside in a
very peculiar way. As he came near, he leaned across Cissie and almost
eclipsed the girl. He eyed the trio with his perpetual menace of a grin
on his broad red face. His right hand, lying across Cissie's lap, held a
revolver. When closest he shouted above the clangor of his engine:

"Now, none o' that, boys! None o' that! You'll prob'ly hit the gal if
you shoot, an' I'll pick you off lak three black skunks."

He brandished his revolver at them, but the gesture was barely seen, and
instantly concealed by the cloud; of dust following the motor. Next
moment it enveloped the negroes and hid them even from one another.

It was only after Peter was lost in the dust-cloud that the mulatto
really divined what was meant by Cissie's strange appearance with the
constable, her chalky face, her frightened brown eyes. The significance
of the scene grew in his mind. He stood with eyes screwed to slits
staring into the apricot-colored dust in the direction of the vanishing
noise.

Presently Tump Pack's form outlined itself in the yellow obscurity,
groping toward Peter. He still held his pistol, but it swung at his
side. He called Peter's name in the strained voice of a man struggling
not to cough:

"Peter--is Mr. Bobbs done--'rested Cissie?"

Peter could hardly talk himself.

"Don't know. Looks l